Amar's resolve burned brighter after the retreat with Ria, the memory of the flower fields fueling his focus. The trap at Vikram Sharma's rally had been a close call, but it had sharpened his instincts. The evidence against Sharma, planted across corrupt officers' computers, had been too convenient—a lure crafted by a rival proxy. Amar needed the truth, and he would tear it from the shadows himself.
Under the cover of night, Amar moved like a wraith, his powers weaving through darkness. He infiltrated Sharma's Delhi office, shadows cloaking him as he sifted through files and hacked into encrypted servers. He visited the homes of Sharma's closest aides, extracting whispers of truth from their fear-soaked confessions. Each piece of evidence—bank records, coded emails, late-night phone logs—pointed to the same damning reality: Sharma was no saint, but a puppet in a larger game. His anti-corruption facade masked a human trafficking ring, just as the planted files had suggested, but the strings led higher.
Amar saved Sharma's home for last. Materializing in the minister's opulent Delhi residence, he found Sharma alone in his study, a glass of whiskey trembling in his hand. The man's charismatic mask was gone, replaced by a haggard expression under the dim glow of a desk lamp. Amar's golden eyes burned from the shadows, his voice a low rumble. "Who do you work for?" he demanded, shadows coiling like serpents around the room. Sharma froze, his breath catching. "Confess, or the darkness claims you."
Sharma's voice cracked as he spilled the name: Arjun Malhotra, a reclusive billionaire in Mumbai. Malhotra was the financial backbone of Sharma's operations, the one issuing orders, the mastermind behind the trafficking ring—and, Amar suspected, the rival proxy orchestrating the trap at the rally. The name was a key, a link to the true enemy. Only then did Amar press further, forcing Sharma to confess his crimes: the abductions, the offshore accounts, the cover-ups. "You'll make this public," Amar growled, "or I'll return."
The next day, Delhi was ablaze with scandal. Sharma stood at a press conference, his face pale, voice shaking as he confessed his deeds live on NDTV, Aaj Tak, and Republic TV. He named his allies, detailed the trafficking network, and announced he would donate his illicit wealth to victim restitution programs. The nation reeled, social media exploding with hashtags and outrage. Sharma's career was ash, his allies scrambling to hide.
In his Koregaon Park apartment, Amar watched the news on his mobile, the grainy footage of Sharma's confession looping. His golden eyes narrowed, a clue in hand: Arjun Malhotra. The billionaire was no ordinary man—likely The Man, the rival proxy who had tried to ensnare him. Amar's chaotic heart thrummed with purpose. Malhotra thought he could play games, pulling strings from Mumbai's shadows. But the God of Darkness was coming for him—harder, smarter, unstoppable.